


Crazy Beautiful High Life

by Spylace



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DCU, Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, M/M, black is the new black, lie back and think of Gotham, with heels and everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes undercover as a maid. It’s a love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy Beautiful High Life

**Author's Note:**

> Repost! 
> 
> The [prompt](tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/1025.html?thread=329729#t329729) asked for John in Selena's place during the beginning of the movie.

He hates Harvey Dent.  
  
Security is a pain in the ass at the best of times when a crowd is concerned. When rich people are involved, John’s known people to take sick leaves, have their grandmothers die for the fourth time that year, start bar brawls or go spelunking in the archives.  
  
On the eighth anniversary of the death of Gotham’s White Knight, the Gotham City Police Department is busy with pesky security details like: who guards the mayor? Who makes sure the Victoria’s Secret models aren’t giving a private show near the hedges?  
  
But unlike the veteran officers on the force, the rookies are nominally stuck with stuck with duties like ‘make sure no one falls in the fountain’, ‘secure the perimeters’ and so forth. Then there are the more elaborate roles which John is sure by now are blatant hazing  
  
“No. Way.” He spits when he draws the short straw. Lt. Sewell, imbued with the heart of a cold, humorless coal, scowls at him. “Sir.”  
  
“Come on newbie,” Davison crows, spinning in his chair. “It’s practically a rite of passage.”  
  
“I don’t ever recall you wearing a skirt Davison.”  
  
The Commissioner makes a sudden appearance like some dusty wraith who’s realized that a human body needs sustenance to function. He hits the coffee machine and stares at them all like they were particularly rambunctious children. John wants to appeal to higher power, kind of like when he was young and being picked on by bullies twice his size. That never worked well. There was always a traitor or two willing to sell out for the right price. This time, the price is seeing John in a maid’s outfit. He isn’t sure if this constitutes sexual harassment or a particularly tolerant work environment.  
  
Tang, Davison’s partner in crime, gives him a slow look over like unwrapping a gift of the sexual persuasion. “That’s because he hasn’t the legs sir.”  
  
John means to refuse but it’s been so long since any of them have heard the Commissioner laugh that he might as well go out and kick puppies before throwing himself off a bridge, several bridges in fact.  
  
Commissioner Gordon fights to keep a straight face.  
  
“I had no idea that the police force had aspirations for the fashion industry.”  
  
“Hey maybe we should change our motto.” Davison jokes as he elbows Tang in the ribs. “How ‘bout Gotham’s Most Fabulous?"  
  
Tang nods with something like approval. “It’s catchy.”  
  
They give him a considering look, Davison and Tang doing the freaky psychic mind-meld thing that has been so helpful during takedowns but really annoying when he’s trying to get a read on what they are plotting. Tang has already pantomimed a cut at her throat as Davison whines and crosses his bulging arms, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout.  
  
“But black is boring!” He exclaims at last, giving voice to what everyone’s been wondering about.  
  
John is instantly mortified.  
  
“Black,” Tang says in a dangerous voice, her eyes flashing like at any moment she will deploy some sexy judo move and strangle them with her thighs. “Goes with everything.”  
  
“No, no, no, I think that young Blake here would look dazzling in green.”  
  
“Idiot, he’s supposed to blend in.” Lierman argues, not for his honor but for a purely logistical standpoint. “Not schmooze all those stuffy rich people like some floozy.”  
  
“That’s sexist!” Tang hisses, bristling like a cat. “He’s perfectly capable of being an empowered woman even if he’s wearing a set of high heels.”  
  
“What.”  
  
John isn’t even sure what’s happening any more.  
  
“Well” Gordon says in what he assumes to be a conciliatory tone before patting him on the back. “At least you’ll be eligible for hazard pay.”

 

“Did anyone think that maybe I could have dressed up as the fucking waiter?”  
  
John means to say this in a flat, manly way to denote that he was not fucking around. Unfortunately it sounds like a whine even to his biased years and tonight, of all nights, everyone seems to want to screw him over. He’s already lost one ally in Gordon because the Commissioner’s got that faraway look in his eyes like when he’s thinking of his kids, or his wife, the one criminal who got away, or the last doughnut. Lierman presses two flutes of champagne in the older man’s hands, prompting him to drink one after the other.  
  
The others, steering him away from pants, carefully plant John in the kitchen where servers are laden with silver plates with delicate mouthfuls like crab cakes and crackers expensive enough to feed a small country.  
  
He swallows; suddenly self-conscious he emerges into the ambient courtyard where the party is being held under a streamer of lights. Eyes pass over him, mute, considering, appraising him like décor or a convenient piece of art. Wearing heels high enough to make a Kardashian cry, he serves drinks, avoids the more amorous guests, and ignores his friends busting their guts by the punch bowl.  
  
John feels utterly naked amongst the throng of people who think that it is perfectly acceptable to grope the hired help. He can no longer feel his ass because it has been pinched black and blue by men and enterprising women who are much more successful in fluttering away with an innocent laugh. While John is all for having his hard work noticed by his superiors, having Foley cop a feel isn’t exactly what he had in mind.  
  
He still can’t believe anyone’s bought his act though he had to admit, once the wonder twins Davison and Tang were finished, he looked utterly transformed in the modest black uniform. Davison had cooed and taken a photo evidence for posterity. Tang only barely managed to prevent him from murdering her partner. He would have to think of a suitable revenge for both in time.  
  
After escaping Congressman Patterson, John goes into the kitchen and waits for the next tray of expensive things he will never get to eat. He eyes the curly sausages, his stomach rumbling and wondering if anyone would notice if he took a small bite. But before he can contemplate the pros and cons of denying someone the chance to puke it up later, he is waylaid by the butler Alfred who gives him a key to the south wing, a wide silver tray, and strict instructions to touch nothing but the door on his way out.  
  
Once he leaves, the kitchen explodes into a flurry of gossip, the sous chef complaining loudly about privileged rich people who think they are too good to come down and eat with the rest of the humanity. The waiting staff gossip like they’ve regressed back to high school, speculating on what Wayne’s been doing for the past eight years, how he looks, how he got secretly married and now has a son, the usual suspects, stuff they even repeat down at the precinct when they’re really bored.  
  
John wobbles a little beneath the weight of dinner. It’s got soup, entrée, appetizer, salad, main course and dessert all within the single tray he has to haul up countless stairs. It is enough to make his inner orphan cry out and demand half his share.  
  
The southern wing is sparsely decorated with white sheets covering up whatever Wayne doesn’t want to see. John actually whimpers when he sees a genuine Titian hung over the mantelpiece, the soft brushwork making the painting seem to come alive.  
  
Naturally, his curiosity prompts him to look around in the lair of the Gotham’s most infamous recluse. This is how a rich man lives unseen from the eyes of the public for over eight years. Despite himself, he can’t help the feeling that tugs at his heartstrings, twisting around them like a coat hanger hooked carefully under his ribs.   
  
It must be a sad existence, he thinks, recognizing the picture of Rachel Dawes.  
  
He had only been a child then but knew about the sacrifices of Dent and Dawes during Joker’s reign of terror. The citizens of Gotham being too cheap to donate actual books, he and the other five dozen or so boys at St. Swithin’s had avidly followed the course of Dawes-Dent-Wayne triangle, piously denying everything whenever the Father stood them all in line.   
  
John completes his slow trek around the room, frowning at the target range leaning against the far wall. Three arrows have already pierced the bright red center, more if the holes and tears are any indication. When a tell-tale whistle blew past his ears, he yanks his hand back, just as the fourth arrow narrowly misses impaling him against the bull’s-eye.   
  
Quickly, he turns around, demanding to know what the fuck his would-be-assassin was thinking when he comes face-to-face with Bruce Wayne, the legendary hermit-heir of Wayne Enterprises, bearded but unscarred, no humps or inconvenient tumors are far as he could see and definitely in possession of both eyes.   
  
But more importantly, John gapes “Did you just shoot me with an arrow?”   
  
Bruce Wayne stares wide-eyed at the sound of his voice.   
  
“You’re not a woman.”   
  
Crap, he’d forgotten about that.   
  
But seriously? He wasn’t even wearing a wig.   
  
“This is how you treat women? No wonder you haven’t been laid in eight years.”   
  
Strictly speaking, he doesn’t know if that’s true. Not that he’d been paying attention in between grocery shopping and the line that lasted a hundred years to the cashier when he just wanted to go home, crash on the couch and maybe sleep before being called out at three am or something.   
  
His voice surprisingly level, the other man says “Your padding is showing.”   
  
John squeaks and turns around, hastily fluffing his faux breasts back into proportion.   
  
“I’m sorry.” Wayne tries to apologize. “I’m just not used to having visitors up here.”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine. I’m sorry, I don’t usually do this, uh, I was just supposed to leave this here and go but I can see clearly that you’re not scarred or deformed.” He coughs. “The girls were wondering.”  
  
Briefly, he wonders about the possibility of the ground opening up and swallowing him whole. It seems like something they would have covered back at the academy. He blinks, no such luck.   
  
“Is that what they’re telling you down there?”   
  
There is a strange quirk to Wayne’s lips that has him relax a little as he unveils dinner and stacks the lids neatly on top of each other. He busies himself, keeping one eye on the other man in case one or two rumors were true. “Some of them think you’re a vampire. Or a werewolf.”   
  
Wayne’s face clears. “You’re from the police department.”  
  
John blinks. “How the hell...”  
  
“Your um...” Wayne waves a hand in his general direction where a light crease across his right thigh has spoiled the line of his skirt. John hitches up without a second thought, not hearing the noisy stutter in Wayne’s breath as he reveals a lacy garter with a gun strapped to it.   
  
“Sorry” He says ruefully, blushing more because of the garter than the fact that he had nearly flashed another man. “I should probably mention that I’m packing.”   
  
“It’s alright.” Wayne replies, looking faint.   
  
“I...” John fidgets. “I should really get going.”   
  
Wayne is swift to block him, quite fast for a man with a lamed leg. “No please, stay, I wouldn’t mind some company right now Mr...” Hobbling around the table, he gestures towards a second chair no doubt reserved for his butler in his more companiable moods and sits down on the first, letting out a soft breath of relief as he stretches his knee out.   
  
“Blake, John Blake sir.”   
  
“Please.” Wayne says drily. “Call me Bruce.”  
  
John sits down opposite of him. “So what brings you here Mr. Blake?”  
  
“Well, you might have noticed the party out there.” He replies, nodding towards the windows.   
  
“And somehow GCPD thought there might be a security breach among the catering staff?”   
  
John puts on a solemn face. “Can’t be too careful these days. My unit convinced me that I had the best legs.”   
  
Wayne smiles. “They have good taste.”  
  
“If you say so.” He says doubtfully, picking at the plate that’d been pushed over.  
  
John is hungry but since there is only one set of silverware to share between them, he doesn’t dare presume. He sits, twiddling his thumb under the table as Wayne makes his way through the entrée of something that might have rice in it, he isn’t sure, until he notices the problem and holds out his spoon. “I won’t mind if you don’t.” He says earnestly, licking off the sprig of spinach tied around the handle.   
  
He accepts the spoon gratefully, shifting through the contents of his bowl, suspicious that it wasn’t the simple cream of mushroom that it presented itself to be.   
  
“Oh, and check the cabinets.” Wayne adds with his mouth full, wiping it against the back of his hand. “Think there is a bottle of wine in there some place.”   
  
The bottle of wine turns out to be a forty-year-old bottle of Scotch.   
  
John has a hard time keeping himself from dropping it at his feet. He is aware that he is holding an entire month’s salary plus overtime in his hands and wonders, not for the first time tonight, what he must have done in past life to deserve this.   
  
“So, do you do this often?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Wayne points at him with the spoon which he has taken back for the coveted wedge of tiramisu. “I’m just... curious.”   
  
Oh  
  
John shrugs. “Hey, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to put food on the table.” He rewinds that bit back in his head and inwardly groans. At Wayne’s stunned expression, he explains hurriedly “Halloween parties, great prizes.”   
  
The confusion promptly drops into a smirk. “I hope there are photos.”   
  
“Oh you know us.” He replies, dry as dust. “GCPD, we have lost entire city blocks before.”   
  
“Well now I’m sure with your contribution,” Wayne toasts, pouring them both three finger’s worth in a crystalline tumbler. “Our city is in capable hands.”   
  
“Not if they keep me on security detail for parties or going undercover as a pro.” John mutters ungratefully, drowning the rest of his job description by knocking back his shot, hissing like a kettle set to boil when the liquor burns all the way down. He glares at his glass as though it has betrayed him personally. Was this some kind of masochism? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to drag his tongue through fire?  
  
“I wouldn’t be so disappointed with your performance.” Wayne laughs, raising the bottle as though to pour him another. “You are... quite enchanting.”   
  
John makes a face.   
  
“Exactly what I wanted to hear from another guy.”

They get quite tipsy drunk throughout the night. John isn’t a lightweight by any means but Jesus, he’s only human and Wayne is stacked for a guy who stays in all the time. But, his lack of time in the limelight is telling because he has obviously forgotten the salient art of knocking back drinks like it’s fizz water taught to all aspiring young socialites from age twelve and up. The side of his neck turns bright red like someone’s spilt wine all over it and John kind of wants to lick him all over to see how he tastes.   
  
He’s just starting to nod off, not even disturbed my his mental monologue, when he notices the steady line of guests leaving, stumbling, or heaving in the bushes where a lucky photographer will build his life’s work at a tabloid magazine. John staggers to his feet, tripping over his heels as he debates whether to simply run and break his neck climbing down all those stairs and simply chuck them off and hope no one notices him jumping through a window. Or something.   
  
But as he leans against his chair, willing the room to shut up and return to its proper, rectangular shape, Wayne takes his hand and guides him to a set of double doors, the bedroom behind them unfolding itself like something out of a gothic fairy tale.   
  
“I should really, really get going.” He appeals, hands sinking against the mattress as he topples over.   
  
Wayne sits beside him, grinning at his boneless state. “I wouldn’t be a good host if I let you leave in your  
condition.”   
  
“‘s fine.” He burbles, struggling to rediscover his spine. “I’m a police officer, I know what I’m doing.”   
  
“Be that as it may.” Wayne soothes, rubbing the back of his neck. Inadvertently, he purrs. “I’d feel much better if you stayed.”   
  
It takes two seconds for him to arrive at a decision.  
  
“Okay, but I’m not wearing these stupid heels anymore.”  
  
“That can be arranged.”   
  
Wayne carefully undoes the straps on his too-high heels, his long fingers lingering over the arch of his feet and all ten toes. John groans with muted pleasure, like a bird set free from its cage, wondering why on earth mankind saw it fit to inflict such horrible torture devices on the rest of humanity. He barely notices the warm hands that scale his calves, too concentrated on the liberation of his sore feet, brushing against the inside of his knees and kneading his thighs. Wayne takes his gun from under his skirt and puts it on the bedside table, never presuming to take the garter off.   
  
Well that’s backwards, he thinks muzzily and he must have said it out loud because a rich chuckle rises from Wayne’s quavering shoulders, a thumb pressing down on the small fold of a skin that twists up steep over one leg. His gaze is soft and wondering when their eyes meet, eager for the story behind every knot and scar. John laces their fingers together and pulls him on top.   
  
He asks breathlessly, “Are you taking advantage of me Mr. Wayne?”  
  
Bruce Wayne stares like a lion might towards his harem, lazy and assured as he marks up his collarbone, the sharp incline already throbbing and red. With one last audible sucking noise, the other man presses a small kiss at the hollow of his throat and leans back, his face resting against his knuckles as he chases his heartbeat all across his ribs.   
  
“Would you mind terribly if I did Mr. Blake?”  
  
“No” He rolls them over and lands on top, staring down at Wayne who is only a man after all. “Please continue.”   
  
“Don’t mind if I do.”

 

The sun stabs his eyeballs with the fury of any traditional matriarch who discovers her son sneaking in after dark and finds him wanting, clothes rumpled, hair mussed, and the possibility of a shotgun marriage brimming on the horizon. But it is incredibly warm inside the bed, wherever this is, silk sheets are really the way to go.   
  
John lurches back to reality.  
  
And while Bruce Wayne remains ensconced in the sweet, sweet embrace of sleep, he darts about the room, picking up one article of clothing after another, ashamed that he has worn them at all now that the peer pressure has worn off. His department-issue gun is secured first, his lacy garter belt nowhere to be found. He  
shimmies back into his black blouse out of desperation but take the time to consider his skirt and the rather obvious blotch made on the front.   
  
John decides to flip it over thinking it better if people see him absentminded rather than promiscuous. He flushes when he grabs his heels, remembering how attentive Bruce had been to his sore feet.  
  
This is what Stockholm syndrome feels like he reminds himself bleakly as he tiptoes past the bed. One hard cuddle and he is literally eating out of the other man’s hand. That’s not what happened but he thinks that the academy has a few glaring blind spots regarding security detail. That or he didn’t pay attention enough during classes.  
  
With one last look over his shoulder, he steps out of the room.  
  
“Morning Mr. Blake.”  
  
His terrified shriek can probably be heard down at the precinct.  
  
Good, the bastards deserve it.

 

“Would you like some more tea sir?”  
  
“Uh thank you.” John says to Alfred who seems remarkably composed despite having witnessed his walk of shame. He shoots Wayne a poisonous glare when his face crinkles into a wide grin. The other man coughs and hides behind the pages of Gotham Daily and the face of Mayor Garcia featured prominently across the front page.  
  
His chair scrapes backwards and he winces at the barely audible noise that sounds more like a gunshot in the austere mansion. Lamely, he says something along the lines of—"I should leave, I should get going, not that this wasn't lovely, I should have reported in hours ago, my boss will be looking for me."   
  
John makes the effort of listing all these reason but really only needs one to stay. Wayne puts down the piece of toast he’s been devouring earlier, getting that odd look in his eyes, the one that screams _I’ve been lost in the mountains for too long_ , like when he’d shot John for trespassing.  
  
Basically, a grown man frowns as though he’s been told that there is no more Christmas.   
  
“But I guess I can stay a little longer.” John sighs as Wayne rediscovers facial expressions besides prerequisite 'brood until your face breaks' and raises an eyebrow as he kicks his heels back off. “Don’t start Mr. Wayne.” He says primly, starting on his eggs with a bit of an appetite. “I’m not that kind of a girl.   
  
Bruce smiles.


End file.
